Willard closed his eyes, and in his great weakness felt the tears run down between his lids. A hand wiped them away, and he looked again, and saw the face of Harry Spink stooping over him.
He supposed it was a dream-Spink, and smiled a little, and the dream smiled back.
“Where am I?” Willard wondered to himself; and the dream-Spink answered: “In the hospital, you infernal fool. I got back too late—”
“You came back—?”
“Of course. Lucky I did—! I saw this morning you were off your base.”
Willard, for a long time, lay still. Impressions reached him slowly, and he had to deal with them one by one, like a puzzled child.
At length he said: “Mr. Blandhorn—?” Spink bent his head, and his voice was grave in the twilight.
“They did for him in no time; I guess his heart was weak. I don’t think he suffered. Anyhow, if he did he wasn’t sorry; I know, because I saw his face before they buried him.... Now you lie still, and I’ll get you out of this tomorrow,” he commanded, waving a fly-cloth above Willard’s sunken head.